


I Will Come Back

by Castiel_in_the_impala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bunker, Dark Dean Winchester, Demon Dean, Enochian, Episode: s10e22 The Prisoner, FBI, FBI Agent Dean Winchester, Federal Agent Dean Winchester, Human Castiel, Human Dean, Mark of Cain, Serial Killer Dean, The Stynes - Freeform, Undercover Dean, eventual destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-09-25 18:19:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9837431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_in_the_impala/pseuds/Castiel_in_the_impala
Summary: Oh how the Stynes wished Dean had lied...In other words, the Stynes don't listen to Dean's warning and he comes back a little darker than before. With a vendetta against Castiel, Dean travels across the US, a trail of eerily familiar bodies behind him.





	1. White

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little idea I had. I've always wanted to read it, but have never been able to find a fic about it. You know what they say: If you can't read it, write it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically 100% copied canon, but the rest is my overactive imagination. Just sayin'

Dean opens his eyes, blinded by the harsh, white light above him. He squints and blinks away the spots, slowly bringing surrounding figures around the table into a blurry haze. He looks at the one standing over him, with hair the same color as it’s lab coat and a malicious grin causing Dean’s stomach to turn.

“Mornin’, Sunshine,” the man greets with a heavy southern accent, “Monroe Styne. Pleasure.”

Upon hearing the name Styne, Dean goes to punch the grin off Monroe’s face, but finds he is unable to move his hands. He grunts as he attempts to get loose, but he’s been strapped down to the table well. Dean slaps on his charm to hide away the rising dread. “I’d shake your hand, but, uh,” he wiggles his hands.

“I have to say, I’m impressed,” Monroe straightens up, “The way you charged in here all guns blazin’. I’d buy tickets to that show.” He chuckles, voice laced with disdain. Dean shifts uncomfortably, trying to find a weak point in his restraints while Monroe continues, “You didn’t think that was really going to work, did ya?” Dean smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Usually does,” he responds gruffly. “Then I guess you know what comes next...” Monroe glances back at one of the Stynes, Eli, standing by Dean’s feet, who nods knowingly. In turn, he glances to the left. Dean follows his gaze to a nurse who looks like she were prepping for surgery except for the fact that the patient is Dean.

Dean sighs and looks back at Monroe. “You’re gonna play operation.” Monroe smiles wickedly. “It is my _favorite_ game!” he responds while Eli walks around the table to Dean’s head. “Don’t do this,” Dean tells him. Monroe motions the nurse to bring over a cart filled with various knives. “Well, son, we are now past the bargaining stage.” Dean sighs, shaking his head. “No, the… The mark on my arm means that I can’t die. I’m not bargaining,” Dean stares at Monroe, “You flatline me and I _will_ come back, but I’ll come back with black eyes. And then you’ll all die.” Eli leans over Dean’s head. “And we’ll let you go, then what? You’ll just mosey on down the road?” Dean stares blankly into his eyes. “No,” he replies, void of emotion, “But I will be human. So maybe a few of you live. _Maybe_.”

Monroe breathes out loudly and leans on the table. “You make a compelling case. And I hope you’re right. Because a man that doesn’t die, well now that is a perfect lab rat.” Before Dean can object, the Eli roughly ties a gag over Dean’s mouth, effectively silencing him. “All right,” Monroe smiles devilishly, “Let’s crack this pinata.”

Dean struggles against his bonds desperately one last time, breathing heavily. Monroe doesn’t miss the fear that crosses Dean’s face for a fleeting moment and chuckles darkly, raising a scalpel.

Monroe carefully slices through the fabric of Dean’s black t-shirt, exposing his scar-covered torso. “Looks like you’ve been in a tussle or two…” He slices a thin cut through the center of a large scar stretching from his collarbone to the center of his stomach, causing Dean to wince and clench his fists. “Now then. Let’s begin.”

 

Dean bites his cheeks, unwilling to give the Stynes the satisfaction of his screams as Monroe drags the scalpel down his torso painstakingly slow, his head spinning as he bites his cheeks, the metallic taste filling his mouth. His vision goes white, head pounding in agony.

Though it is probably less than 30 seconds, it feels like hours as the cold metal slices through Dean’s skin and muscle. Blackness twinges at the edge of his vision, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to pull him into its clutches. The strange warmth of blood cascading down his sides contrasting with the cool table causes him to shiver. There’s a faint feeling of fingers pressed to his neck, followed by a voice. “He’s almost gone.” Dean can’t quite place the voice as it floats away. He doesn’t remember who it belongs to. “Good,” replies another voice as darkness engulfs him.


	2. Black

Dean’s mind ever so slowly emerges from the haze of death, his ears picking up on a conversation being held nearby.  
“‘I will come back’ my ass,” a muffled voice laughs. It’s soon joined by a second voice, “The delusions of our victims never fails to brighten my day,” it’s owner’s southern accent replies.   
As Dean’s body steadily heals itself, he opens his eyes, only to see white. He’s been covered by a white sheet, but that’s only expected. He was dead after all. Dean moves a hand slightly, taking note of his restraints having been removed after his death.  
Dean smirks as he thinks of the Stynes, planning his blood-filled revenge with his newly renewed demonic mind. His hands flex into fists over and over in anticipation, when Eli’s voices breaks his internal monologue.  
“Did you see that?” he asks. “See what?” Monroe replies. Dean closes his eyes and plays dead at the sound of feet approaching. “I coulda sworn I saw something move under there.” The two Stynes are standing next to him now. He can feel their eyes on his now unmoving body. Eli grabs the top of the sheet, folding it back to expose Dean’s face. “He’s dead, Eli. His ramblings were nothin’ more than a ploy to escape,” Monroe says. “But the mark-” “Just a scar.”   
A few more moments pass at the two Stynes observe Dean’s body. “I thought I told ya to take out his eyes,” Monroe says angrily, followed by the telltale sound of a slap to the back of Eli’s head. “I did,” Eli responds, confusion evident in his voice. “Well if ya did, the eye sockets would be hollowed out. Have I taught you nothing?”   
Dean doesn’t even flinch as Eli presses a finger to his right eyelid, feeling for his eye. “What the- I took them out! Just ask Jackie!” Dean figures that the damn nurse must be Jackie. Monroe sighs loudly. “Well… Just take ‘em out now. They might still be salvageable.” Eli’s only response if a huff as he walks over to the cart, picks up something to scoop out Dean’s eyes, and comes back.  
Dean smirks inwardly as Eli’s fingers touch his face, opening his eye. A metallic clang sounds as Eli drops the scoop in shock. “What the hell are you doin’, boy?!” Monroe demands. “His eyes!” Eli starts, “They were-” “Black,” Dean speaks, turning his head to stare at the two shocked Stynes with his dark eyes. Before either of them can speak, Dean continues, “Ya know, I’m glad you didn’t listen to me,” he smiles darkly, “I missed this.”   
He sits up on the table, the two Stynes backing away slowly. Dean looks down at his bare torso, now fully healed, save for a thick, white scar running from the top of his chest down to his stomach. He straightens up, cracking his back in the silent room.   
Eli fumbles in his pocket and pulls out a menacing knife. Dean laughs. “You really think that’s going to do anything?” Despite everything, Eli rushes forward and stabs him in the heart where he sits on the table and stumbles back when nothing happens. Dean looks down at the knife sticking out of his chest and laughs. “Ya know, I did this to my best friend when I first met him.” The humor falls off his face. “He helped cure me last time.” He looks up, staring at the Stynes. “I’m gonna kill him.” In the blink of an eye, Dean jumps off the table, swiftly pulling the knife from his chest.   
It’s over in seconds. Before either Styne could call out, they were choking on their own blood, their throats slit cleanly. The two bodies fall to the floor with a loud thud. Too loud.   
People calling Monroe and Eli’s names echo through the hallway outside the door. Footsteps are coming closer. Dean smiles wickedly, adjusting the grip on the knife. “This is gonna be fun…”


	3. Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could've sworn I updated earlier... Oh well. Enjoy some Dark!Dean :)

Castiel arrives at the Styne house late at night. As soon as he steps out of his car, he shivers, feeling as though someone is watching him. He brushes it off. It’s not important right now. Dean is the one he came for.

Cas creeps up to the front door, sticking to the shadows, figuring it will be easier to sneak around under the cover of night. As it turns out, he doesn’t need to sneak around at all.

 

As soon as he steps through the front door, strangely left open, Cas becomes dizzy. The smell of death is powerful, burning deep within his lungs. He coughs, attempting to rid himself of the vile blackness swirling around him as he looks around with stunned eyes.

As he slowly makes his way through the house, surveying the damages, the distinct feeling of being watched only grows.

 

Thirty seven.

 

In total, thirty seven people, _Stynes_ , were killed. Probably more, if he looks hard enough. Some are outside, strewn lazily upon the lawn. Others are inside, still sitting on the couch as if they are watching tv. Blood coats the floors, making them slick under Cas’ shoes. Just as he thought it couldn’t get any worse, he steps into the autopsy room.

 

There are five dead Stynes in the small room, which isn't bad compared to the rest of the house. A woman dressed as a nurse, a man in a bloodied labcoat, a young man, and two others, most likely lackeys. Their blood, already beginning to dry, tells Castiel they were the first to die. But that’s not what bothers him.

What bothers him, is the pool of blood underneath a metal autopsy table. It calls to him, to his grace, seemingly glowing in the dim light.

 

Cas drops to his knees, realizing that the large pool of blood is _Dean’s_ blood. There is just _too much_ there, meaning Dean hadn’t gotten away. He hadn’t gotten away _alive_. And without his body around, it only means one thing.

 

Dean is a demon.

 

Castiel’s world crumbles around him as he sinks to his knees, not caring about the blood seeping through and staining his clothes. All this work, all this grace, all this time and effort expended in working to remove the Mark of Cain, has been in vain. Dean, _Demon Dean_ , has come back. And now the demon has gone awol. Missing, without anyone, every Crowley, to keep track of him. He could be _anywhere_. Without his location, there’s no way in hell that he can be cured again. Even with it, Dean would kill Cas and Sam before they can do anything.

 

Cas pulls out his phone and struggles to punch in a number with his shaky fingers. He presses the call button and lifts it to his ear.

It rings once.

“Cas,” Sam says worriedly, “Did you find him? Did you find Dean?”

Castiel breathes in deeply, composing his answer. “Sam… I-I didn’t find Dean, but he was definitely here.”

“Where are you?”  
He pauses. “The Styne Estate.”

Sam turns quiet. “How… How bad is it?”

“There are thirty seven bodies in total that I could find.”

Cas holds the phone away from his ear while Sam’s loud curses echo through the speaker.

“Alright,” Sam sounds breathless, “We- We have to gather the bodies-” “Sam.” “And we have to get gasoline, a lot of gasoline-” “Sam.” “A-And then, w-we have to-” _“Sam._ ”

Sam stops. “What?”

“They killed him.”

Sam goes silent, his heavy breaths coming through the line unevenly.

“...You don’t mean-”

“Dean’s a demon, Sam. I couldn’t get to him in time. I… I’m so sorry.”

Cas winces at the sound of Sam punching the nearest object, followed by a grunt of pain.

“Just… Get out of there, Cas. _If he sees you_ … After what happened last time… Just get out of there. We’ll meet back at the bunker, figure things out.”

Cas nods as Sam hangs up, leaving the angel in the deathly quiet home of what used to be the Stynes.

 

xx

 

Dean perches on the roof of the Styne Estate. His eyes are closed as he feels the night breeze blow around him. Reaching out with his demonic senses, he smirks as the last of the Stynes’ souls slip away into oblivion. “Good riddance…” Dean breathes quietly.

 

Dean’s admiring the feeling of death in the surrounding area when his breath hitches.

He is able to sense the angel from a mile away. The bright nature of grace scratches away at his demonic senses like an itch that won't quite go away.

An angel’s grace is bright, causing all of them to look the same. But from the dim and broken feel of the grace drawing nearer, Dean can tell it’s Castiel.

 

Dean opens his eyes, still unmoving from his place on the roof, when Cas’ old continental pulls up in front of the estate. The angel (though, is he really one anymore?) climbs out of the car, huffing tiredly. Dean can feel his stolen grace growing thin and smiles wickedly at all the possibilities.

Dean’s eyes follow the angel up the driveway and around the house. Once he is no longer visible, Dean closes his eyes and watches him with his black senses. He feels as Castiel’s heavenly essence moves through the blackness and death in the house, step by step.

Dean barely stifles a laugh when Cas drops to his knees in soul-crushing agony upon realizing Dean is, once again, a demon.

Honing his hearing in on Cas, Dean can hear his muffled voice speaking on the phone with someone, probably Sam.

Eventually, the call ends and Cas makes his way outside. Once he is in his car and driving away, Dean jumps down from the roof, somersaulting and jumping to his feet at the bottom. He wipes his hands on his pants, brushing off the dirt, and walks back inside the house

 

Dean is walking through the house once more, admiring his work, when an idea pops inside his head. His wicked mind claps for joy at the thought.

Bending down, he dips his fingers in the nearest pool of blood, shivering slightly at the amazing feeling of it. He stands, walking over to a wall, and begins writing.

 

After a few minutes, he stands back and smiles at his work.

_Cas:_

_Here lies a dead man’s soul_

_Revenge is sweet_

_This is going to be so much fun_

_You’re next_

The words drip crimson droplets, making Dean shiver with joy. He pulls out one of his burner phones and calls 911.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“I need you to make a little public announcement,” he says casually.

“Excuse me?” the woman asks, confused.

“The Styne Estate. Bring cameras.” With this, he hangs up. Dean snaps his phone in half and snaps his fingers, wiping the place clean of _any and all_ fingerprints.

Dean laughs heartily as he walks casually out of the house. The sounds of sirens echo in the distance, growing closer.

He snaps his fingers, appearing on the rooftop of a nearby house and watches as the police storm the house. One by one, they rush back out, nearly puking their guts out at all the blood. “This is going to be so much fun,” Dean says to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally posted the beginning of this chapter as the chapter prior, so I'll delete that one. Sorry for the confusion!!


	4. Quinn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so short. I couldn't continue to where I wanted to go without splitting into another chapter.

_ “-And now to Mark at the scene.” _ The man in a suit cuts to a man in casual attire, as if he quickly put on clothes and rushed to the scene. He looks pale with whatever news he has been given. Behind him are flashing lights of various emergency vehicles surrounding a large house.

_ “Thanks Chris. _

_ Here I am, at the scene of the mass murder. In total, forty three bodies have been found. So far, no one has been able to stay in the house for more than a few minutes. I haven’t been given details as to how bad it looks, but I have been told that this is the most graphic crime scene in FBI history,” _ the camera moves over slightly, revealing a man in a black suit, a grim expression on his face,

_ “I have here with me, FBI Special Agent Adam Quinn, the leader of this investigation.  _

_ Mr. Quinn, are there any details you are willing to share with the public?” _

_ “Each of the bodies are related to the notorious Styne family. According to a local cop, who had been threatened with death by the Stynes on multiple occasions, the Stynes have been running some sort of illegal human harvesting trade, using their victims various parts to ‘bulk themselves up’. So far, the remains of twelve unidentified harvest victims have been found and we are assuming more are on the way.” _

_ “How did you discover the bodies? I have been told that some of them have died less than an hour ago.” _

_ “We, uh, actually got a 911 call from the killer himself. Most likely after he was finished slaughtering the Stynes. He asked for a public announcement, obviously wanting his killings broadcasted on national tv. We tracked his phone on our way to the Styne Estate. It had shown he was at the location not minutes before we arrived and we found remnants of the phone he used and destroyed.” _

_ “And anything about the killer?” _

_ “The killer definitely knows what he’s doing. The skill… Well, there’s no other word I can use other than  _ torture _. The torture left the victims in a lot of pain before they died. Until further investigation, we believe most of the victims died of bloodloss. There was just… So much blood.”  _ Both on camera turn paler, looking slightly faint.

_ “Do you have any idea why the killer went after the Styne family?” _

_ “Revenge. In fact, the killer left a note addressed to someone named ‘Cas’ in the victims’ blood. We are assuming it is a nickname of another killer he’s after. The note read ‘Cas: Here lies a dead man’s soul. Revenge is sweet. This is going to be so much fun. You’re next.’ The killer is playing some sort of game with the other man. Our people are working to come up with any kind of profile on killer. Until then… We don’t know.” _

_ “So, you’re saying the killer is playing a game with this ‘Cas’. Maybe the amount of blood that has been described or the method of killing is some sort of calling card for the other man so he knows it is addressed to him.” _

_ “That’s just it, we’ve never seen  _ anything _ like this.” _

_ “Care to elaborate?” _

_ “It’s not just the massive amount of blood or the method of killing that sticks out at us. It’s also the fingerprints. Or  _ lack _ of them. The house is completely void of any fingerprints _ anywhere _ , killer or otherwise. The Stynes lived in that house. At least a few people were there at any given time. For there to be  _ no fingerprints _? With  _ that _ many people? I just can’t believe it.” _

_ “Thank you Special Agent Quinn. Now back to-” _

Sam shuts the TV off and throws the remote across the room from where he is sitting on the couch. He pulls his knees to his chest, rests his forehead on them, and breathes in deeply. 

Cas puts a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder and sighs. 

“I should never have let this happen,” Cas says quietly, “I should have gone faster. If I had only  _ been there-” _ Sam pulls Cas down into a hug, both for Cas’ comfort and his own. “It’s not your fault,” Sam says breathlessly, “It’s all of us. We should have known Dean would go against the Stynes. We should have known…”

Cas nods into Sam’s shoulder and pulls away. 

Sam immediately stands, swaying slightly on his feet. “It’s been less than a day. Dean can’t have gone too far-” “Sam.” “-We can get a map together. Track him.” Cas puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder to steady him. “Sam. You need to rest.” “But we need to-” “No.  _ I _ need to. Go sleep. You are in no condition to do anything reasonably productive in the state you are in.” Too tired to protest, Sam nods blearily and thanks Cas, heading off to his room to sleep for at least a few hours. 

With shaky hands, Castiel sits down in the library, a computer in front of him, wishing, hoping,  _ praying _ that he can find Dean before the demon inside is rooted too deeply. 


	5. Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eek! Another short one! Sorry :/. I'm working on three separate stories right now. I work on one when I get writers block on another, but I'm coming back around to this one again.

 

_ Three Days Later _

 

Dean lazily sits on the roof of a building, a convenience store, he thinks in… what state is he in? Colorado? Utah? He shrugs to himself, his feet dangling over the edge, swinging back and forth without a care in the world. 

The sun is shining bright on the people walking on the street below. Dean’s eyes scan the bustling crowd below, searching for something, some _ one _ , in particular. His demonic senses tingle with joy upon spotting a man walking into the convenience store below. Quickly and quietly, Dean smoothly stands and makes his way down the fire escape. 

When he enters the store, he casually walks to the opposite side of the store as the man, careful to avoid any security cameras.

The man is a few inches shorter than Dean, with fluffy dark brown hair, big lips, and blue eyes. It’s not the right blue he’s looking for, slightly more gray, but it’ll have to do. 

Dean watches him as he walks through the refrigerated section, grabbing a salad and a bottle of juice. The man turns to see Dean looking at him. Dean quickly averts his eyes, cheeks flushing as he smiles, feigning embarrassment. The man seems to look Dean up and down before continuing his trek around the store.

The man catches Dean’s glances a few more times before Dean finally approaches.

“Hiya,” Dean smiles, flashing his teeth brightly.

“About time you came over here,” the man’s eyes scrape down Dean’s body with barely concealed hunger.

“I’m Dean,” he extends his hand and the other man shakes it eagerly.

“Martin.”

“Do you want to have dinner with me tonight?” he says bluntly.

Martin raises his eyebrows, “Straight to the point, then. I like it. But, uh, how do I know you’re not some serial killer?”

Dean opens his arms in a what-are-you-gonna-do motion with a little shrug as he cocks his head to the side, a smile playing on his lips, “You willing to take that chance, Martin?”

“Hell yes,” he replies with a chuckle.

Dean and Martin swap information and agree to meet outside the store at seven.

 

_ After Dinner _

 

Martin had one-too-many drinks and is now sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s (stolen) car. He is stretched out on the seat, fingers playfully running up Dean’s jacket sleeve.

“Why can’t you come to my place, Dean?” Martin asks playfully drunk for the millionth time that night.

“I already told you. I have plans tonight.”

“Ugh,  _ fine _ ,” Martin sits up lazily, “My place is up here on the left.”

Dean passes the road.

“Uh… Dean? You passed the turn.” Dean ignores him. “Dean?” Martin asks nervously, sobering up a little. Dean looks over at him, no longer looking at the road. There’s a glint in his eye that has Martin’s mind telling him to  _ run _ . “You took the chance,” Dean says, regarding their earlier conversation. His eyes flash black and Martin screams. 

“You lose.” Dean snaps his fingers and Martin’s screams go silent. A bubbling trail of blood is all that comes out of Martin’s mouth.

 

_ The Next Morning _

 

Dean steps back to admire his work with a malicious smile.

Martin, or what’s left of him, looks like a kabob. His bloodless, severed limbs and head were ripped off with Dean’s bare hands. They have been pounded into a dead tree just off the road with stakes carved from branches from the tree itself. His torso rests in the middle of the trunk, with his head and limbs spread out around him. Below him, his insides lay in a neat pile, his ID on top. Dean vividly remembers plunging his hand into screaming Martin’s stomach to rip them out. The ground is soaked in blood, so much so, that it squelches under Dean’s shoes. Above Martin’s remains on the peeling tree bark, a note written in blood.

_ Cas: _

_ Enjoying the view? _

_ Don’t worry _

_ I’ll make it worse for you _

In a swift motion, he pulls out his new phone with his bloodstained hands and turns on his heel, walking toward a large pile of boulders just on the other side of the road. “911. What’s your emergency?” Dean stops in front of a the pile, surveying it.

“I’ve got another one for ya,” Dean replies as he snaps his fingers, moving a large boulder to reveal a small, cave-like area. He steps inside.

“I’m sorry?”

“Call Special Agent Adam Quinn. Tell him Route 50. 30 miles southwest of Delta.” He hangs up and crushes his phone is his palm, leaving the confused 911 operator to call the FBI.

 

An hour later and the kill site is swarmed with FBI. Helicopters zoom overhead, their searchlights scanning the surrounding nothingness for anything to lead them to the mysterious killer. Dean sits cross-legged inside the cave. He moved the boulder so that it covers the mouth of the cave, but he still has little holes where he can watch the view. It’s an obvious hiding spot for a killer on the run, but the boulder is so humanly-impossible to move, that agents walk past without a second thought. 

Dean yawns as he watches, perfectly content and hidden. He chuckles quietly as agent after agent are forced to run away from the kill site to throw up on the ride of the road. 

Every once in awhile, one of the search dogs comes up to the boulder, smelling him. Eventually they see him through one of the holes and move to alert their handlers, but his eyes turn black and he stares at them. The dogs whimper and run off, leaving Dean in peace. 

After a while, Dean spots a man and watches him intently.

Special Agent Adam Quinn. 

 

Quinn approaches a man leaning over the victim’s intestines and grimaces. Jack Hawkins, the forensic investigator, doesn’t seem to care the slightest as he pokes around the remains with a stick.

Quinn scans the body up and down, shivering as he makes eye contact with the cold, dead, blue-gray eyes that are  _ open and staring right at him _ . 

Quinn shakes his head. “Whaddya got?” He asks, not bothering with pleasantries. 

Jack stands and pulls his gloves off with a snap. He takes a bag from the evidence pile and holds it up.

It’s a bloody drivers license. 

“This was sitting right on top of the intestines. Meet Martin Crawford, 31. He worked at Delta Community Medical Center in the emergency room. Nice guy, according to his record. Only a few speeding tickets.”

“Judging by the note, I’d guess that this was our killer from Louisiana?”

“You’d guess right,” Jacks rubs a hand down his face, “There’s nothing. No fingerprints anywhere. None on the vic’s body either.  _ Not even his own fingerprints! _ How does that happen?!” an exasperated sigh, “I don’t know how he does it. This guy’s a  _ ghost _ .”

Putting the ghostiness of their killer aside, Quinn changes the subject. “Weapons?”

Jack shakes his head. “Besides the obvious tree branches of doom, no weapons.”

Quinn looks at the body, confusion forming on his face. “But there  _ has _ to be one. You can’t just rip a guy’s body apart like that.”   
“As far as we can tell, that’s  _ exactly _ what he did,” Jack picks up another, longer stick to use as a pointer, not wanting to walk close to the body and get their nice shoes soaked blood. He points to faint finger shaped mark right on the edges of where the body parts were severed. “These marks here? They show that Martin was literally  _ ripped apart by human hands _ . While he was a alive, might I add.”

“The poor bastard was  _ alive _ when this happened?!” Quinn shouts in disbelief.

“Yep, but that’s not the only weird part,” he motions to the ripped open stomach with the tip of the stick, “His organs? Also ripped out with the killer’s hand.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

“What the fuck?”

“Yep.”

With one last look at the body, Quinn turns away. “I can't stay here any longer. His  _ eyes _ , man. They're freakin me out.”

“I know, right? It's like they're staring into your soul.”

With an angry kick to the dirt, Quinn sulks off to work on catching the impossible killer that will surely end his career. 

Little did he know, a certain green-eyed demon laughs morbidly a few feet away.


	6. The Styne Family Slasher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big THANK YOU to Loracine for suggesting the name 'The Styne Family Slasher' :)
> 
> Also, I have to stop making promises about when I'm going to update. I was supposed to do it like two weeks ago, yet here I am XP

Cas is immediately up and off of the bed from where he was gazing at a photo of him and Dean when a crash sounds in the kitchen. He runs to the doorway and stops upon seeing Sam staring at a newspaper, a shattered coffee cup by his feet.

“What is it, Sam?” Cas asks quietly, moving closer.

“He’s, uh,” he pauses, swallowing loudly as his hands tremble, “He’s been officially dubbed a name,” he motions to a section of print with a shaky finger.

Cas takes the paper, face growing paler with every word he reads.

 _‘America’s Newest Serial Killer, The Styne Family Slasher, Strikes Again’_ , it reads. He isn’t paying very much attention as his eyes scan the print. Something about a man killed horrifically, no fingerprints, and a note.

Cas looks at the picture of the note printed in the bottom corner of the page. “Cas-,” he begins, voice cracking slightly, “Enjoying the view? I’ll make it worse for you…” He suddenly feels faint.

 

The next thing he knows, Cas is standing in a dark room, devoid of almost all light, save for the rays of sun coming through a poorly boarded up window. It seems to be part of a warehouse. Looking at his hands, he notices that they are translucent, almost as if he were a ghost.

There’s some sort of summoning ritual by his feet. Cas leans down to pick up the bowl filled with ingredients, but his hand passes right through.

Movement behind him causes him to turn, eyes darting around frantically until they fall on a form with its back facing him.

The form’s soul is twisted and black.

 _It’s Dean_.

“Dean?” he calls hesitantly. No answer. Not even any acknowledgment that he is there.

Cas’ breath hitches upon realizing that Dean is standing over a man that looks like his vessel.

“Stop,” the man pleads as Dean lands another punch on his cheekbone with a crack, “Please! I’ll do anything!”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Dean barks, grabbing the man’s throat and lifting him into the air, “There isn’t anything you can give me. I just need _you._ ”

“W-Why _me_?” he chokes out roughly. His cheeks are streaked with tears that shine in the light as they mark paths down his dirt and blood-ridden face.

Dean smiles wickedly and turns, staring directly into Cas’ eyes. Cas fumbles back a step, scared and confused, filled with the sudden urge to _run_.

“Because you look like _him_.”

“Who-” Before the man can finish his question, Dean swiftly tightens his grip, crushing the man’s neck with his hand.

 _“No!_ ” Cas yells, but it’s too late. Dean lets go and the man’s lifeless body falls to the ground with a thud.

Dean turns back to Cas, who is deathly silent as he stares at the man’s body in shock.

“His name was Oliver McLawsen,” Dean says, wiping dirt off his hands, “Worked at a nursing home in town. Nose was a little off and his hair was kinda short, but overall…” Dean grins, holding up an a-okay symbol with his bloody hand.

“Why…?” Cas breathes quietly after a pause.

Dean’s eyes twinkle. It’s not the usual mischievous light that accompanies Dean’s smirk, but hellfire. It burns Cas as he flinches away from the demon’s gaze.

“You know why.”

“Now then,” Dean claps his hands loudly, rubbing them together, “Do you think Quinn deserves a clue? I think he does.”

Dean snaps his fingers and Oliver’s body explodes. Castiel looks around horrifically. The room is coated in dripping, red liquid. Shards of bone stick out of the walls where they have impaled the wood.

A giggle makes Cas snap his head back toward Dean, who is grinning. Gripped in his hands is Oliver’s head, the only solid body part left.

Head in hand, Dean steps over to the wall, retrieving a small, foldable table. He puts it in the middle of the room, somehow not slipping on the blood-coated floors, and sets Oliver’s head up like a display. As a finishing touch, Dean lays Oliver’s id on the table.

“Perfect,” he says, “Just one more thing…”  
Cas watches, still in shocked silence, as Dean walks to the wall, boots squelching in the liquid. Putting a finger to the wall, he begins to write in the red coating.

_Cas:_

_I’d kill you right now_

_And boy, do I want to_

He gazes at Cas with an evil wanting after writing this, but soon continues.

_But be patient_

_Wait your turn_

_\- D_

“Quinn’s gonna have a field day with this,” Dean barks with a laugh.

Another snap of his fingers and the evidence of the summoning ritual disappears, most likely along with any fingerprints.

He pulls out his phone, punching in three telltale numbers. “See you soon, Cas,” Dean calls over his shoulder as he opens the door to leave.

  


Cas breathes in suddenly, gasping for air from his place on the floor. Beyond his coughing and sputtering, he can hear Sam sigh, “Thank god.”

He’s back in the bunker.

A strong hand behind his back lifts him into a sitting position on the floor. “What happened?” he manages to ask between breaths.

“After you read the note, you just _collapsed_ . You weren’t breathing or moving and I couldn’t find a heartbeat,” he breathes out deeply, “I thought you _died_ or something, Cas.”

Castiel stares at his now-corporeal hands, realizing none of what he saw was a dream.

“Dean summoned me,” he croaks. Sam goes silent, watching him closely. “He somehow managed to summon me as I would appear in my vessel, but non-corporeal.”

“Like a ghost?”

He nods. “He…”

Sam lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “What happened, Cas? What did he say?”

Cas shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. “He didn’t say much at all. But…” he looks into Sam’s eyes with sorrow, “He killed another…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this story yet, so any suggestions are welcome.  
> Also, if you see any sort of mistakes, don't hesitate to tell me :)


	7. Smith. Dean Smith.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The description of the badge is really crappy so here's a link to my even crappier online version. Just imagine it as being more professional looking and... well... better, in general XD  
> http://imgur.com/KrJgY6U
> 
>  
> 
> BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH THOSE SHORT CHAPTERS   
> (sorry)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this *shrugs*
> 
> SUGGESTIONS FOR WHERE TO GO NEXT ARE WELCOME :)

Dean strolls into a clothing outlet in some no-name town, eyeing the black section with a smirk.

“Oh man,” he says to himself with a laugh, “This is gonna be fun.”

  


“ _Jack_!” Quinn yells as he bursts into the motel room, flipping on the lights, “Wake the fuck up and meet me in the car!”

Jack groans from where he was sleeping off his hangover in his bed.

“What the fuck, Adam?” he rolls over and glares at Quinn in disdain, “How are you so awake after drinking so much last night and _why_?”

“Like I said before we started,” Quinn tosses Jack’s bag at his face, making him yelp in surprise, “Can't really get drunk anymore,” he pats his torso near his liver, “ _And_ the Styne Family Slasher killed another guy.”

“Just have the newbies look at it.”

“I _did,_ idiot. But they fucking _found something_ . Now _move your ass!”_

 

40 minutes later, one of the FBI’s helicopter is touching down just outside a warehouse in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

As soon as the pair step off the chopper, they are met by a man, sandy blonde hair, green eyes, about 6-foot, wearing black cargo pants, boots, a thigh holster with a beautiful gun if Quinn's ever seen one, and a black form fitting t shirt.

“Special Agent Adam Quinn?” the man asks.

Quinn nods, “That's me. This is my forensics partner Jack Hawkins.”

“I'll be helping you in your investigation from now on.”

Quinn eyes him suspiciously. He was never informed of anything. “On whose authority Mr…?”

“Smith. Dean Smith. And I'm afraid that information is classified.”

“Classified?” Quinn snorts, “Buddy, I don't know who you think you are, but this is the _FBI_. I'm as classified as they get.”

Dean’s face remains blank as he replies, “I'm afraid your clearance isn't high enough to know of my occupation, _buddy._ I'm Delta-X. The rest is on a need-to-know basis.”

“You got a badge, at least?”

Dean swiftly pulls one out of his back pocket. It's black with gray writing. There’s the general info along with small, red, official-looking numbers displayed at the bottom corner, along with a platinum circle seal. The seal is an X enclosed in a circle, with two guns in quadrants of the x across from each other. In the uppermost quadrant sits the FBI seal. In the bottommost, the US Army Delta Force seal. Engraved in the top surrounding circle is ‘DELTA-X’, in the bottom is ‘SPECIAL OPS’. Quinn studies the badge with fascination, never having seen anything quite like it.

He eventually sighs and returns the badge, deeming too ‘official looking’ to be fake.

Dean turns and steps inside the warehouse to the crime scene, leaving Jack and Quinn. Jack barely stifles a laugh and Quinn glares at him. “He showed _you,_ ” Jack snorts, laughing as Quinn stomps off to follow Dean.

 

“Whattya got?” Quinn hears Dean ask one of the field officers as he enters the room.

“Oliver McLawsen, 23. According to local records, he worked in a nursing home down the road.”

“Where’s the rest of him?” Quinn asks, staring at the bruised head in disgust. The field officer motions around the room and Quinn notices the coating on the walls for the first time.

Quinn does his best not to throw up right then and there as he steps over to the nearest wall. Looking closely, he can see small shards of bone protruding out of the wood, almost as if someone played darts with them.

“Any idea how this happened?” Quinn asks Jack, who came into the room soon after him.

Jack’s eyes scan the room in marvel and disbelief. “This… is… _incredible_ . I mean, _look at this!_ ” he motions to the walls and to the distinct shoe prints in the blood on the ground, “Oliver here simply _exploded_ from the inside. The Styne Family Slayer was standing right there when it happened,” he points to two shoe prints without any blood in them, signifying that the killer was already standing there before the blast, “This is the point of origin of the explosion,” he motions to a spot just in front of the show prints, “Blood got everywhere. It shouldn’t have, though. Since our killer was standing right next to the blast, he would have gotten covered. There would be some sort of disturbance in the blood pattern. But _no_ . _There’s no disturbance!_ It’s like the blood passed _right through him_ ! And then there’s this!” Jack runs over to a wall. There’s another note that Quinn hadn’t noticed. “There’s no _fingerprints!_ You can tell he used his fingers to write this, so it’s impossible for there to be no fingerprints! This is _amazing!_ ”

“Okay, Jack, that’s great. Thanks.” Quinn will never really understand his friend’s fascination with the way killers kill.

He dismisses the thought and walks over to the note, studying it, when a thousand emotions sweep over him. He breathes out deeply, a hysteric laugh at the end. “Oh my god. There’s…” he stares at the _\- D_ at the bottom of the note. He glances quickly back at Jack and Dean and turns his gaze back to it.

“He’s taunting you,” Dean says before Quinn can get another word out.

“What makes you say that? We could have some _actual_ evidence here!”

“You’re not going to find any. He purposefully left you two obvious clues. He’s stringing you along, making you think you’re gonna catch, but in reality, he’s already ten steps ahead of you.”

Quinn’s elatedness fades quickly, his mouth turning down into a frown. “ _Dammit_.” He pulls at his hair in anger, only because he can’t punch the wall. That would interfere with the evidence.

“There is _some_ good news,” Jack intervenes, causing Quinn to turn to him, “We know the killer’s name starts with D, he’s got…” he bends down to the shoeprints with a measuring device, “size 12 shoes, and his vics fit a certain profile. Dark hair, blue eyes, they actually all look very similar. Since he has been threatening Cas in his notes, we can assume that he looks like the vics. _And_ all the vics help people. That leads me to believe Cas helps people in some way as well.”

Quinn sighs. “Thanks Jack. At least we have something to work off of.”

“I’m gonna head out. I’ll be seeing you soon,” Dean says before strolling out of the warehouse.

“Man, that guy’s creepy,” Jack breathes as the two watch him go.

“Yeah. Ya know what’s even weirder? He didn’t even look at the evidence. He just _watched us_. Whoever this Dean Smith guy is, he’s bad news.”

“Maybe he’s secretly the Styne Family Slasher in disguise, faking his identity as a secret sect of FBI agent just to watch us fail as he investigate the crime scene,” Jack stares at Quinn, face conveying pure seriousness, before Quinn pinches the bridge of his nose with a long sigh.

“Your theories… God. Sometimes I just want to shoot you in the face.”

Jack erupts into a fit of giggles as the two exit the warehouse. “I mean, come _on_ , Quinn. Even his _name_ fits!”

“Just shut up and get in the car, you fucking moron.”


	8. Bunkers and Black Cars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me a month to post :(. I haven't had a chance to get on my computer in a while, between finals, traveling, and preparing for my trek on the Appalachian Trail. I'll only be gone a week, thank god. I'm doing it for my dad's 50th birthday. I'm such a nice daughter :). Lol just kidding. I'm going to complain the whole time :DDD. 
> 
> But anyway. Back to the story. This is a really random turn of events, but I kinda like it. There will only be one more chapter after this :( but that's okay. I'm actually writing another fic right now. (Don't worry. I'll finish it before I post it so you guys don't have to wait so long between chapters) 
> 
> One more thing: If you see any inconsistencies or typos, please tell me. I wrote half of this on my phone at like three in the morning.

Over the next two months, the Styne Family Slasher kills twelve nearly identical men. The FBI have gotten nowhere since their purposefully-given hint. The leading agent, Adam Quinn, has been pacing a hole in the floor at headquarters.

“Our perp is out there, killing innocent people, _and we can’t even figure out his pattern!_ ” Quinn yells, exacerbated. They've been attempting to figure out a location pattern for the killings, but it's just too random.

Jack pats him on the shoulder awkwardly, wary that he could get punched in the face during Quinn’s sudden bouts of anger. “We’ll figure it out soon, Adam.”

The two turn back to their map and sigh. Figuring out the location pattern is going to kill Quinn and he knows it.

 

xx

 

“He’s killed two this time, sir. Identical twins.”

Quinn scrunches his face up in anger. He’s getting too old for this job.

“Anything useful?”

“No, sir.”

Ever since the big break with the first letter of the killer’s name and the boot prints, the team has gotten nowhere.

Quinn sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “What about the scan? Anyone turn up yet?” Last month, the team set up a nationwide scan. They have overlayed the photos of every victim, creating an average for them all, so to speak. The final picture is a mesh of all the faces. Using any security cams nationwide that they can hack into, the team has been filtering out the men that look most like that final picture in an attempt to find the infamous Cas. Once he is found, they hope he will lead them to the Styne Family Slayer.

“There’s John Hammond from Indianapolis and Anthony Zuckerberg from San Diego, but there’s a third man.” The man fidgets for a moment.

“Spit it out,” Quinn insists.

“Well… I believe this is our guy,” the man turns to the tv screen in the room where a picture is being displayed, “According to records, his name is Jimmy Novak from Pontiac, Illinois. His resemblance to the face mesh is uncanny. It's exact in every detail. He used to have a family, but his wife and daughter dropped off the grid shortly after he did.”

“Why’d he drop off the grid?”  
“According to files from his doctor, his wife thought he started having some sort of mental breakdown. He kept saying that he was speaking to an angel. Shortly after this, he disappeared, only to reappear every once in awhile over the years under the name Castiel.”

“Castiel,” Quinn says slowly as if testing the name on his tongue and his eyes widen with glee, “Oh my god. That’s- That’s _Cas!_ _The_ Cas!” He laughs breathlessly.

“He was picked up frequently by security cams in a grocery store in Lebanon, Kansas.”

Quinn hits the speed dial on his phone and brings it to his ear as he stares at the picture with newfound determination. “We’re actually gonna catch this son of a bitch,” he says just as Jack picks up his phone.

 

xx

 

Quinn and Jack load up a black SUV for the hour drive to Lebanon from where their plane landed. A little ways away, Quinn spots Dean walking towards them. “What the hell,” he turns to Jack, “How did he know we’d be here?” he motions to the remote airstrip they landed on, “ _I_ didn’t even know where we were landing.”

Jack shrugs, unconcerned by this.

“Why do you have to call the guy every time we go somewhere?” Quinn mutters, annoyed.

Jack faces him sharply, a perplexed look on his face. “I thought _you_ were the one who called him…”

“Heya fellas,” Dean interrupts before the conversation can continue.

 

The drive is silent and awkward, with Quin gripping the wheel with white knuckles. Even more so after Jack attempts to get some conversation going. “So, Dean,” he turns to the man sitting in the backseat, “Anyone ever tell you that you kinda look like that dead serial killer, Dean Winchester?” He laughs awkwardly when Dean just stares at him. Jack turns back to the front and sinks down in his seat, not speaking a word until they arrive.

 

“Let me get this straight,” Dean shifts in his place and leans forward so he’s in between Quinn and Jack’s shoulders, “We’re gonna camp out in a grocery store parking lot and wait for the guy to _maybe_ show up?”

“Yup,” Jack says, popping the ‘p’.

“According to the security cams, he visits here every Thursday,” Quinn informs them, “So we’ve got a pretty good shot of finding him.”

‘ _The Angel of Thursday doing his shopping on Thursday.’’_ Dean laughs internally at this.

The team pulls into the store’s parking lot and parks in the backmost space, away from prying eyes.

“Do we even know what car-” Quinn takes careful notice of Dean’s suddenly halted sentence. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean watching with hungry eyes as an old black car pulls into the lot. The car parks at the front of the lot and just sits there for a moment before the driver door swings open. A man with dark hair in a trench coat exits the vehicle and begins walking towards the store.

“That’s Cas,” Jack confirms, but Dean is already out of the car and halfway across the lot. Quinn and Jack get out and rush to catch up.

“ _Hey Cas_ ,” they hear Dean call. With his back to the team, Cas stops abruptly. His shoulders radiate tension. Cas turns to face them slowly. Quinn notices that once Cas see’s Agent Smith, his face goes white.

 _“Dean_ ,” he says breathlessly. Suddenly, he turns on his heel and sprints back towards the car.

“ _Go go go!_ ” Quinn yells as the three race back to their car for a chase.

The old car peels out of the parking lot and speeds down a dirt road a few miles from the store with the SUV hot on it’s tail.

 

 

 

 

“What do you mean ‘it doesn’t work’?!” Quinn yells as he spins the wheel frantically to avoid hitting a low-hanging branch on the dirt road.

“I mean _it doesn’t work!_ ” Jack throws the useless radio that they were trying to use to call for backup onto the floor with an aggravated groan. Dean smirks devilishly in the backseat. He may or may not have fiddled with the wiring on the radio…

 

As Quinn chases the old car down the dusty road, he can’t shake an uneasy feeling from his mind as he meets Dean’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He doesn’t dwell on it for long, for the chase ends when the old car is thrown into park in front of a large half-underground bunker. The agent have but a few seconds to gawk at the building before Cas scrambles out of the car, down a small flight of stairs, and is slamming a large metal door shut.

“Holy shit,” Jack says as they climb out of the car, “This place is _huge_.”

Quinn sees Dean take something out of his pocket as he descends the stairs.

With a loud _click_ , the door creaks open and the three enter the building, guns drawn. They descend the stairs and enter a large library.

Quinn breathes out deeply and adjusts his grip on his gun. _‘It’s now or never’_ he thinks.

 

In the blink of an eye, Quinn’s gun is pointing directly at Dean’s head.

“Uh… Adam?” Jack asks, deeply concerned by the turn of events _(as well as the author because it’s taking her a billion years to write this chapter grr)_.

“Yeah, _Adam_. What's the problem?” Dean asks innocently with his hands raised.

“Jack. Take his gun.” Jack is about to protest, when Quinn glares daggers at him. He takes the gun quickly.

After a short pat down, Dean’s gun and one hidden bowie knife are in Jack’s possession, along with a small box covered in strange carvings. Quinn takes the box and examines it. “What’s this?” He holds it up.

“The key to this place,” Dean replies simply.

“Where'd you get it?”

“Under the welcome mat, where else?” he jokes.

Quinn glares at him in annoyance. “Okay, okay,” he gives the box back to Jack, “Now, I could believe that you _found_ the box somewhere. It's an entirely possible situation. If that was all that was bothering me, I’d let you off the hook. But there _is_ something else…”

“Do tell,” Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Who are you, _Agent Smith_ ?” Quinn asks, “Cas recognized you. He knew your _name_.”

“I told you,” Dean says, mock offended, “I’m part of the Delta-” Quinn cocks his gun, silencing Dean mid-sentence.

“No funny business.”

Quinn expects some sort of half-assed deflection, but it surprised when Dean laughs throatily, throwing his head back and clutching his stomach.

“What’s so funny?” Jack asks.

“Oh, nothing,” he lowers his hands. “Hands up!” Quinn demands, but Dean ignores him and continues speaking. “It’s just, killing demons was fun and all, but killing humans that are unaware of the supernatural?” His eyes flash back. Jack screams. “So. Much. Better.”

With a flick of Dean’s wrist _(nope, I was totally not singing ‘look at da flicka da wrist’ here nope not at all)_ , Quinn watches helplessly as Jack flies through the air and slams into a bookshelf with enough force to break bones. He promptly crumples to the ground, unconscious.

Dean makes a _tsk tsk tsk_ noise that draws Quinn’s attention back to him. Dean is making a pouty face in Jack’s direction. “It’s no fun when they can’t stay conscious.” Dean’s eyes snap to him, blackness consuming them as he smirks devilishly. “Maybe you’ll be different.”

 

 

Quinn doesn’t know when he lost his gun. All he knows is that he is sprinting away from a mad man - no - a mad _thing_ , up and down unfamiliar corridors with no weapon to defend himself. In the back of his mind, he wonders where Cas went and hid away, if the man was even still there.

Seeing a door partially ajar, Quinn dashes into it and shuts the door quickly, but silently. His body is shaking as he slowly backs away from the door. His thoughts are whizzing by so fast that it’s making his head spin.

Quinn turns around to see that he is in a bedroom. Guns line the wall by the bed’s headboard. There’s a desk to his left and he approaches it. He spots a brown, leather bound book. As he picks it up to examine it, a loud voice rings out, causing him to drop it in surprise. _“Adam!”_ Dean singsongs from somewhere nearby, _“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”_

As Quinn bends down to pick up the book, he notices a few pictures have fallen out. He picks everything up, setting the book on the desk and taking the pictures in hand.

One is old, judging by the faded colors and bent edges. It’s of a blonde woman hugging a boy, who he recognizes as a young Dean. Another is of a group of people laughing. A man in a wheelchair, another man, Dean, Cas, and two women. He scans over their faces quickly, not bothering to really look at them. The last one is of three men sitting on the old car that he was chasing earlier, two of them are obviously being Dean and Cas. The third looks vaguely familiar… Quinn somehow chooses that exact moment to remember Jack’s comment from the car. _‘Anyone ever tell you that you kinda look like that dead serial killer, Dean Winchester?’_

And then it hit him.

In the picture in his hands, is none other than Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, and their so-thought accomplice.

He mentally curses himself. _How didn’t he realize sooner?_ The cocky attitude? Impersonating a federal officer? Involvement in strange killings? _The goddamn identical face?_ They’re all calling cards for Dean Winchester, murderer extraordinaire.

But he’s not just a murderer. He’s… something else entirely. Black eyes? Telekinesis? Dean spoke of demons before.. No. It’s too crazy… Right?

The hair on Quinn’s neck suddenly stands up and snaps out of his thoughts. It wasn’t a sound that broke them, but rather a lack of one. He hasn’t heard Dean in a while…

 

Suddenly, the lights go out. Quinn barely manages to stifle a whimper. A deep, loud, gravelly voice cuts through the darkness like knives, filling the bunker with sound.

 _“Sah ba leh ta._ ” Quinn doesn’t recognize the foreign language as he covers his ears in an attempt to save his eardrums. _“Darr zod leh fa. Vee nu nohno kee tah beh geh sah, bah bah lo en. Nah._ _Be still._ ” (Translation: _Remain righteous. Transform your hands of poison. I invoke you to submit, wicked one. Obey._ )

Quinn holds his breath in the silence that follows. It feels like hours, though it is but a few seconds.

The power suddenly turns back on.

Taking a shaky breath, Quinn walks to the door, deciding against his better judgment to investigate. He opens the door and screams, closing his eyes. For there is Dean Winchester, standing right on the other side with his hand raised as if to punch a hole in the door.

 

A few seconds pass. He isn’t dead yet. Slowly opening his eyes, he sees Dean just as he had a second ago. The man hasn’t moved an inch.

Quinn studies him curiously for a moment before waving a hand in front of Dean’s eyes.

No reaction.

Cautiously slipping past Dean, Quinn breathes a sigh of relief and turns to leave…

But there’s a gun in his face.

With Sam Winchester on the other end.


	9. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I will come back,” he sighs sadly, “...eventually…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. NEVER. POSTED. THE. LAST. CHAPTER???!!??!?!??!?!?!? I went to post another story only to find out that i nEVER UPLOADED THIS CHAPTER!!!! I'M SO SORRY!!!!!!! I COULDA SWORN I POSTED IT IN JULY!!!!!!!!!??????!??!?!???!!??!!?

Sam, calm and unmoving, reaches behind his back, pulling out a silver knife. Before Quinn can do anything, a quick move on Sam’s part leaves a small slice in the skin on his arm.

Sam seems to consider him for a moment before whipping out a flask and dumping its contents on Quinn. He jumps in surprise. Neither reaction seem to be what Sam is looking for. Luckily for Quinn, instead of killing him, he only lowers his gun and grits his teeth, jaw set in an unsure way.

Suddenly, Sam’s hands are on him and he fears the worst. To his surprise, Sam is pushing him behind his back and out of harm's way as Cas, who is on the other side of the hallway, slowly approaches Dean.

“The enochian spell work?” Sam questions.

Sam holds an arm out protectively in front of Quinn as Cas mutters more of the strange language to Dean.

Dean moves, but he still looks like a zombie. Or a puppet being controlled by Cas. His arms drop to his side and he turns to Sam, eyes blank. He twitches every few seconds, but is otherwise unmoving.

Cas breathes a sigh of relief and nods to Sam, answering his earlier question. Sam drops his arm, deeming Quinn safe.

The three pass by Quinn and he decides to follow.

 

A few turns and a staircase later, Quinn watches as Sam and Castiel tie Dean to a chair in what looks like the most satanic room he’s ever seen. Strange symbols cover every inch of the place. Some blood bags and a large syringe sit on a table in the corner of the room. Quinn faints.

 

“Adam Quinn?” Cas’ voice cuts through the haziness of unconsciousness, “It is Special Agent Adam Quinn, correct?”

He nods slowly, unsure of what to do. He sits up, discovering he was moved to a couch in the library. Jack lays by his side, still knocked out, but with bandages covering a gash in his arm he must have gotten when he was thrown.

Cas steps closer, looking him over. “You have been unconscious for several hours. I was beginning to get worried. Are you injured?” He shakes his head, blinking rapidly.

Castiel turns back around to face Sam, who just entered the room. “Sam?”

Sam sighs. “One to go.”

Quinn stares at him, both awestruck at the giant man and in fear of the alleged serial killer less than 10 feet away. “You’re Sam Winchester,” he states, earning a calculating look from the man. “I am. And you’re a fed.” Quinn sighs and looks at the floor. “You don’t have to worry about me arresting you. This is _way_ above my paygrade.” Sam snorts and relaxes a bit. “Yeah, well, at least you get paid…”

Ten minutes later, Jack is still unconscious and Quinn stares at his untouched glass of whiskey as Sam finishes his second and Cas his… well, he drank a lot so far. He shouldn’t even be anywhere _near_ sober right now.

Quinn leans back in his chair, “You’re Cas.”

Castiel turns his head downward. “Yes. My name is Castiel.”

“So, what do you do?”

Cas looks up at him in confusion. “Do…?”

“Ya know. _Do_. All the victims had jobs that helped people. So what’s yours?”

He doesn’t miss the quick glance the younger Winchester and Castiel share. “I, um,” he clears his throat, “Well, I used to lead… I guess you would call it an army. And then I was reassigned as a bodyguard of sorts for a very important person.” Sam chuckles quietly. “Soon after that, I realized my… family… was corrupt.” “So it was a family business?” Cas nods. “I rebelled and fell away from them. I soon joined the Winchesters. Saving people, hunting things, the _new_ family business.” “Hunting things…” Quinn goes quiet, “...like demons?” At Cas’ questioning face, he continues, “Agent Sm-,” he coughs, “ _Dean_ mentioned something about it…”

“Wait,” Sam interrupts, “Agent?” “Uh, yeah. Dean showed up one day saying he was Agent Dean Smith of some Delta force thing. He actually turned up the same day we found our first clue. Said we wouldn’t find anything else, that the killer was taunting us,” he sighs in frustration, “If I had just _realized it was him_ …”

“Then you’d be dead,” Cas says after a beat, “I believe Dean only played along and kept you alive because it was fun for him to watch you run in circles.”

 

Sam turns back to Cas and quietly talks about their plan for Dean. “Can you come help me tie more rope around Dean? After the seventh dose last time, he became more human and broke out of the demon bonds.”

Cas stands and follows Sam out of the room.

 

Quinn watches the two leave and fiddles with his fingers as he thinks. Sam and Dean Winchester. Two of the most notorious criminals on all of FBI history. But that's just it. They aren't criminals. Just… _misu_ _nderstood_.

He recalls what Dean had said. ‘Killing demons was fun and all…’ _Demons_. He also spoke of the supernatural.

And then it hits him.

All the horror movies he'd seen when he was younger, all the mythology books he read, it all comes back to him.

To kill a ghost, grave desecration is necessary.

Aka one of the most common charges of the brothers

To kill a shapeshifter, silver in the heart

It explains the body buried in St. Louis and the murders there

A demon is a black eyed being with incredible strength and telekinesis

Exactly what Dean showed in his little demonstration

_The supernatural is real…_

 

A loud thud followed by a shout knocks him out of his thoughts. Quinn’s head snaps toward the direction of the shout. It came from deep in the hallway where Cas and Sam went. He clears his throat. _“Guys?”_ he calls worriedly.

When he is answered with complete silence, he makes a decision: find them.

 

Quinn looks around for anything that he could use to protect himself from a demon. He’s rounding his third bookshelf when he spots a duffle bag thrown into a corner. He checks to see that no one is watching before he scurries over to it and looks inside.

There’s some books, clothes, and a gun. He grins, picking up the gun, but it falters upon seeing that it’s void of bullets. He tosses the gun back into the duffle in defeat, but as it lands, the clothes move inside to expose a glint of silver.

A knife.

Quinn grimaces at the blood dried onto the strange carvings. He can’t imagine what it’s like to be stabbed with a serrated edge like that. It would rip someone to _shreds_.

With a short sigh, he grips the knife protectively and slowly makes his way down the hallways of the bunker.

 

xx

 

There’s fire burning through him, ripping its way through his veins like barbed wire.

Despite the beads of sweat covering his body, he’s _freezing_ inside.

Every breath he takes feels like knives stabbing away at him.

Every movement is crushing.

Through all the pain, he can hear someone approaching.

He bows his head, feigning unconsciousness.

Dean smiles wickedly.

 _Now’s his chance_.

 

xx

 

“I’m just worried, Cas,” Sam tells the angel as he opens the dungeon doors. Cas adjusts the thick rope on his shoulder to keep it from falling. “I am too, Sam, but he’ll be okay.”

Cas drops the rope next to Dean’s chair, where he is still unconscious.

Sam touches Dean’s neck to check his pulse, but pulls away with a hiss. “Oh my god,” his startled eyes meet Cas, “Cas, he’s _hot_ . Like really, _really_ hot.”

Cas reaches out and puts a hand on Dean’s bowed head. He pales. “His temperature is 137.2 and rising…” he pulls back, “Dean is fighting the cure _extremely_ hard. It’s starting to cause some physical responses.”

“ _Hurts_ …” a small voice whimpers.

Dean shivers as his head slowly rises. He looks at Cas, green eyes glassy as tears drip down his face. “ _Cas_ -” Dean coughs, “Cas, it _hurts,”_ his voice cracks.

“Dean?” Cas questions softly, shocked that Dean is even _conscious_ right now.

Dean turns away to face his brother. “Sammy…” his breath hitches before he doubles over in pain with a groan. His hands flex where they’re shackled to the arms of the chair.

“Dean?” Sam questions cautiously.

Dean seems to not hear him as he grits his teeth in pain. The shackles around his wrists and legs begin to glow red hot, burning away at Dean’s clothes and skin.

“Dean!” Sam rushes forward to help his brother. “Sam, _no!_ ” Cas shouts.

But it’s too late.

In a flash, Dean’s shackles fall to the floor, melted clean through. He’s holding Sam off the floor by his throat, a snarl on his face and black in his eyes.

“Dean, don’t…” Cas attempts to sound calm, but sounds slightly panicked instead.

Dean turns to look over his shoulder, still holding Sam as he chokes the life out of him. “ _Castiel_ ,” he hisses. He whirls around and punches Sam in the face, knocking him out. He turns back around to the angel as he drops Sam on the floor, a smirk on his face as he slowly advances. “Been waiting for this moment… _brother_.” Cas visibly winces at the sullied term of affection.

Cas holds his arms out to stop Dean if he choses to charge as he slowly moves back against the wall. “You don’t want to do this, Dean. We can still save you!”

Dean stops cold, smirk replaced with a blank, far off look. His humanity is leaking through, much like it did with Crowley. “Is that what you think you’re doing?” he asks quietly, “ _Saving me_ ? Saving me from what- _living_ ? I’m truly _living_ now. _Are you trying to save me from my new, emotion-free life?_ ” he scoffs before lunging forward. His hand pierces Castiel’s chest and wraps around his heart. Cas freezes in pain, unable to move as he stares brokenly into Dean’s anguished eyes. “No… You’re torturing me. By killing you, I can finally be free of my-” Whatever Dean was going to say is replaced with a strangled cry as his hand slides out and he falls to the floor, along with Cas. Quinn is standing above him staring down at the knife sticking out of Dean’s back.

 

Orange lightning crackles underneath Dean’s skin as he convulses with pain from the knife that is trying to kill him.

Trying and failing. The demon killing knife of the kurds can’t kill a Knight of Hell, after all.

Quinn stares in shock as the demon wriggles around in pain on the floor. A soft moan tears his eyes away to look at Castiel. He is shaking on the floor, as straight as a board. His pained face scrunches up as his breath hitches. As his hand comes up to rest on his chest, it is only then that Quinn notices the gaping hole in his chest over his heart. Blood pools around Cas’ body as Quinn drops down to his knees beside him.

He can hear Sam coming to behind him, but can’t tear his eyes away from the dying man in front of him. “Oh my god…” He says, knowing there’s no way to survive an injury that severe, “I’m- I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

With a shaking hand, Cas lays his palm over the wound and closes his eyes. He begins muttering some of the strange language he heard before. His face scrunches up in pain and concentration as he struggles to form the words. Suddenly, a bright, blue light emits from the wound, nearly blinding Quinn.

A moment later, he looks back down at Castiel. He’s unconscious and barely breathing. Quinn stares in disbelief at the large pink and white scar peeking through the bloody white shirt where the hole was.

A weak hand wraps around Quinn’s ankle. He spins away from Castiel to see Dean, still convulsing in pain while the orange lightning sparks through his veins. His eyes are far away and unfocused, but the grip on Quinn’s ankle grows stronger. He vaguely registers Sam standing up as the pain becomes more unbearable.

Sam towers over his brother a bit unsteadily. He takes out the flask from earlier, whispers _sorry Dean_ , and dumps the rest of it’s contents onto him. There’s a puff of steam, followed by sizzling and a scream. That seems to push Dean over the edge, as his black eyes close in unconsciousness.

 

Quinn didn’t know it was possible for a demon to pass out. He leans against the doorway of the dungeon with his arms crossed to keep weight off his bruised ankle, fiddling with the knife Sam had taken out of his brother behind his back. Sam ties one last knot in the rope keeping Dean’s unconscious form from slipping out of the chair. As soon as his brother is secure, he dashes over to Castiel and puts two fingers against his neck. Relief floods his face upon feeling a steady beat beneath his fingertips. Sam lays a big hand over Cas’ chest and he bows his head. After a few moments, Castiel stirs.

 _“Dean_ ,” he mutters, even before consciousness fully returns to him.

Sam leans over to look into his friend’s eyes. “Cas? Hey, you okay?”

“Your brother’s hand was in his chest. I don’t think he’s okay,” Quinn interrupts.

Sam glances over his shoulder at him as if noticing him for the first time before turning back.

“Cas… how are you _alive_?” he starts unbuttoning Castiel’s shirt to inspect the injury, “Your grace is barely there. It can’t protect you anymore.” With that, Sam pulls the shirt back to reveal the pinkish-white scar the size of a human hand that Quinn had seen before.

In a flash, Quinn has the strange knife on Castiel’s throat. “Gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t stab you right here and now, _demon_ ,” Quinn hisses. Cas’ unearthly blue eyes stare up at him. “I am not a demon. I am an-” he sniffles, breaking eye contact, “I _was_ an angel of the lord.”

“ _Was?_ ” Sam exclaims as Quinn asks, “Oh yeah? Then where’s your halo and wings?” He slides the knife closer, breaking a small sliver of skin. A thin drop of blood trails down his neck.

Cas winces in pain. “They could not be seen in this dimension,” he looks back up at Quinn, “Do I really seem like a demon to you?” He asks the question confidently, but looks as though he is afraid of the answer.

Adjusting the grip on the knife, Quinn recalls everything he’s learned over the course of the case.

_“-all the victims helped people-”_

_“-to believe Cas helps people in some way as well.”_

_“-he was speaking to an angel.”_

_“-killing demons was fun and all-”_

_“I was beginning to get worried. Are you injured?”_

_“Hunting things...like demons?”_

_“The supernatural is real…”_

Quinn sighs and drops the knife, rubbing a hand down his face with a strangled laugh. “Demon vs angel… If evil can exist, why can’t good?”

Sam reaches over and grabs the knife, tucking it into the back of his pants.

“Cas, what do you mean _was_?” he asks again.

“My grace…” the angel sits up with a broken look in his eyes, “It’s gone,” he looks down at the floor, expression growing hard, “I used the last of it to heal myself,” he pushes himself up, swaying on his feet, “I-,” he clears his throat, “I suppose you want me to leave now….” He attempts to push past Sam, but his giant hands grab the angel’s shoulders. Sam looks into Cas’ sad eyes with a confused expression. “Why the _hell_ would we want you to leave?”

Castiel’s face turns to stone in an effort not to let his emotions show through. “Dean only needs one more injection.” “ _And?”_ “I am human,” Cas says quietly, “Last time I was human - during Gadreel - Dean asked me to leave,” he pauses, “I am no longer needed here.”

Sam pulls his best friend into a bone-crushing hug. “You _are_ needed here, Cas.” “What-” “Our family needs you to be a part of it.”

Relief and love fill the angel as he wraps his arms around Sam. He is needed. By his _family._

They release each other and Sam claps him on the shoulder, smiling sadly.

“Now that the lovey-dovey group hug is over, can ya let a demon go?” Dean voices from his seat.The group looks over at him.

Dean is slouching in the chair, re-shackled and tied, still sweating profusely and shivering slightly. He is glaring up at them through his eyelashes.

“Dean,” Sam speaks evenly, disguising his irritation for the stunt pulled earlier, “We’re almost done. Just one more injection.”

“Just kill me,” he sneers, “It’s better than being a _weak human being_.”

“No, Dean. You don’t mean that. I _know_ you don’t mean that. You want to be cured.”

“You think I _want_ to be here?!” his humanity yells, black eyes screaming at them, “Stuck in this _miserable_ life?” the snarl slowly fades, replaced with a bleak look on his face, “Being forced to fight the big bads thrown my way?” his breath becomes uneven and his eyes water, “Shoved into hurt and pain every day?” a tear slides down his wrecked face “Surrounded by-” his voice breaks, “Surrounded by the _deaths of every person I’ve ever cared about_?” he closes his eyes, “I don’t want to live in that hell anymore,” his voice is quiet as he bows his head, breathing raggedly. Sam prepares the injection.

When he lifts his head again, glassy, broken, agonized green eyes meet them. His next words are too quiet for everyone to hear.

Everyone but Castiel.

_“I_

_wish_

_I’d_

_just_

  


_die…”_

Sam injects the last of the blood and Dean’s head lolls in unconsciousness.

Castiel gasps and steps forward as Sam begins to untie his brother. He holds Dean’s face in his hands, pulled into pained grimace even in sleep.

  


_2 hours later_

 

“What’d I miss?” Jack asks sleepily, rubbing his head in confusion.

“Well,” Quinn starts, “Dean Smith turned out to be Dean Winchester, also a demon. He threw you, chased me through the bunker, I met Sam Winchester, found out Castiel used to be a real _actual_ angel, and cured Dean into a human again.”

Jack blinks once then looks around the room. Sam Winchester is crouched over a nearby book and drinking a beer in the vast library.

“Woah,” Jack grumbles.

Sam looks up from his book, eyeing him carefully. “You okay?” he asks.

Jack blinks again and nods his head.

Sam smiles kindly. “There's nothing we can do till Dean wakes up, so for the time being, try to relax a bit.” Jack moves to examine a bookshelf. “Oh,” the younger Winchester adds, “But, uh, don't touch the katana sword… Dean nearly sliced his hand open pretending to be a samurai.”

 

xx

 

Cas watches over Dean as he sleeps unrestfully in his bed, tossing and turning as the cure changes him.

It hurts him to know how Dean feels about his life. That it’s miserable and he’d rather be an emotionless demon than a human.

Dean’s breathing suddenly changes. It becomes shallow and he stops moving.

He’s awake.

“Dean?” Cas calls. He’s met with silence. He didn’t expect a response.

Cas sighs. “Dean, I know how you’re feeling right now and I just want to say-” “No…” Dean’s interjection is so quiet, Cas isn’t sure he heard it, but he continues, “No. You _don’t_ know what I’m feeling right now. You have _no fucking clue_.” He sits up against his headboard, pulls his knees to his chest, and buries his face in them.

“I couldn’t do it…” he whispers.

“You couldn’t do what?”  
“I couldn’t kill you…”

Cas gulps and braces himself for the answer to his next question.

“You said- you said that by killing me, you could be free of something… free of _what?_ ”

Dean looks up at him then, face shimmering with fresh tear tracks. “Loving you.”

Cas is stunned. He didn’t expect an answer, let alone _this_.

“I love you, Cas,” his voice cracks, “I love you… and it _hurts_ . It _hurts_ to love you, Cas. It hurts to see you leave. It hurts not knowing if you’re okay. It hurts knowing you don’t feel the same.” He bows his head, shaking slightly from crying.

Dean feels soft fingers brush over his cheek and he looks up at Cas. The ex-angel is looking at him with broken eyes, but they’re somehow happy too. “Dean Winchester,” he declares, “You’re an idiot.”

With that, their lips meet in a kiss. It’s short and far from perfect, but it’s all Dean needed to want to live again.

 

Sam checks his watch. It’s been 2 hours since Cas went to check on Dean. He knows Cas likes to watch over Dean, but he’s getting worried.

Just as he’s about to get up to find him, Cas and Dean walk slowly into the library, hand in hand.

Dean is standing behind Cas slightly, obviously deeply ashamed with himself.

“Welcome back,” Quinn declares upon seeing him.

Dean shifts uncomfortably and clears his throat. “Sorry,” his voice is raspy from crying, “For, ya know, trying to kill you,” he looks over at Jack, who still looks kinda out of it, “You too.”

Quinn waves it off. “It happens.”

Cas and Dean sit down with Sam at the table.

“You okay? Back to your old self?” Sam asks cautiously, deciding to avoid the obvious relationship between the two for now. Dean blinks and licks his lips. It’s a long moment before he responds. “I will come back,” he sighs sadly, “...eventually…”


End file.
